


Hide and Seek

by CatLovePower



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Riggs sees something he shouldn’t have, one night on the beach. He may need help to get out of this one. Will Murtaugh find him in time?This story features terrorists, illegal weapons, a very pissed off Riggs, a kidnapping, a concerned Murtaugh, injuries and what not.





	1. Riggs

Parking the trailer on the beach had seemed like a good idea, at the time. The sound of the waves breaking was soothing. Imagining the slow erosion of the cliff kept him up at night, his mind empty, focused on the assault of the sea on something seemingly unbreakable.  
  
"Give it some time," they had said. "Take some time off," they had offered. "Time heals everything." Lies, all lies. The only reassurance he had was that every day, every minute was bringing him closer to his death. Contemplating the sea eating away the cliff was an apt metaphor.  
  
At night, there was no one on the beach. He was being tolerated, providing he didn't build any fire. He had thought about torching the trailer once or twice. Going out in a huge blaze, burnt to a crisp, with nothing left but charred bones to put in a casket. But that was the easy way out. He'd wait.  
  
The night was fresh, a sharp, welcomed contrast with the too hot afternoon. There had been storms rumbling, far away. Riggs lay on the narrow couch, looking at a moldy patch on the ceiling. He turned the light off, lighted a cigarette. Sleep wouldn't come tonight.  
  
He got out, slammed the door behind him with one foot. No one would dare rob the crazy cop living like a bum on the beach.  
  
Maybe he should get a dog, he thought. A mutt who'd love living outside the city. It'd run in the waves, try to catch seagulls and eat seaweed. Then he realized he didn't feel responsible enough to take care of another life. Not when he couldn't bother to take care for his own.  
  
He couldn't even remember the last time he ate a proper meal, something that was not fried or between slices of bread. It was probably at Murtaugh's.  
  
He sat on a block of cement not far from the shore, his ass growing cold through his jeans. He considered going back to put on a jacket and get something to eat.  
  
Then he heard them. At least four men were walking on the beach, towards the cliff. Riggs didn't want company, didn't want to have to deal with drunken frat men or lost tourists. Now would be a good time to go to bed, he thought, taking a last drag on his cigarette.  
  
The men seemed to be arguing. Voices carried by the wind were talking about a package and a boat. That was more than suspicious; Riggs knew pretty well that they were no college boys looking for a good time. Dealers or worse. They probably didn't like company either.  
  
He could have hidden in his trailer. Called for backup on a hunch. Played dumb, lit another cigarette and hoped for the best. Instead he retreated into the shadows and waited for the group to pass.  
  
"The rendezvous point is just a bit farther."  
  
"Has he made contact?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
They were closer now, and when the clouds parted, Riggs could see that they were dressed as a commando, all black clothes and black boots. Interesting. He knew he shouldn't find it interesting, but he couldn't help himself. The thrill of an imminent peril was the only thing that made him feel alive these days.  
  
He could have introduced himself Riggs style, but he left his gun in the trailer and for once it seemed unwise. He started following them at a safe distance.  
  
The argument appeared to be over as a device started beeping and the leader of the group announced that he had "picked up the signal". It felt like a treasure hunt, and at least Riggs wasn't freezing his butt anymore. He started mentally betting on the contents of the elusive package; his money was on cocaine or fire arms.  
  
Their little midnight stroll took them all the way to the cliff. Riggs no longer feared being overheard as the sound of the waves drowned everything. The leader turned on a frontal lamp when they reached the far end of the beach. There was a dinghy on the sand there, and a wooden crate on board. The size of large machine guns. Or a lot of cocaine.  
  
That should have been his cue to retreat and call for backup. But curiosity and the lull of the waves crashing on the cliff were making him restless. He was crazy, after all, so why not act like it even when no one was watching.  
  
He easily got the drop on one of the bad guys who had strayed from the group. They may dress as military but they didn't have the training. The man never saw it coming and he never managed to get out of Riggs' headlock. He fell to the ground without as much as a grunt. And then things got hairy.  
  
A fifth man appeared out of nowhere, suddenly in his back. And this one was huge, a beast, with fists as big as his head.  Riggs tried to tackle him, but it was like ramming into a brick wall. He felt his collar constrict his throat, as the man lifted him by his shirt. He flew, thrown to the ground, the whole commando surrounding him.  
  
He was on all fours, ready to scramble up for round two, ready to bite and throw sand in their eyes, play dirty if he had too. But they were faster; he was kicked in the ribs before he could stand. He felt more than he saw movement in his back. Gritting his teeth, he kicked the unseen assailant and heard a satisfying shout. Then his head exploded with pain and he fell face first in the sand.  
  
Darkness threatened to engulf him, but he resisted the pull of unconsciousness. He was not going to get cold-cocked on his own beach, not far from his trailer. Time seemed to slow down; he shook himself like a dog, trying to clear his vision. Then the leader of the party pistol whipped him on the side of the head with the butt of his side arm. 

  
  
He woke up with a start and hit his head on something hard. It was pitch dark and he wasn't sure why. There was blood on his face, still sticky, so he didn't stay unconscious very long. His arms were tied in his back, pulling uncomfortably on his ribs. It hurt.  
  
After a while, he was able to take in his surroundings. He was in the trunk of a moving car. He could see light through the taillights, and he felt the engine rumbling. They must have been on a highway because the ride was smooth.  
  
He tried to wriggle his wrists but they used very tight zip ties, which were biting his skin. His fingers felt numb. Then he realized why it was so tight in there; he was wedged against the large box from the boat.  
  
The car lurched and Riggs hoped there was nothing explosive inside that box.


	2. Murtaugh

Murtaugh was a happy man, because his wife and he were enjoying an early breakfast in bed, undisturbed for the first time in years. The kids were away, at a friend for the teenagers, with a lovely babysitter for the little one. It felt wrong at first, but they quickly forgot.

Then Murtaugh's phone started vibrating on the bedside table. He groaned and buried his face in his wife's shoulder, hoping to will away the call.

"Shouldn't you get that?" Trish asked.

"It's probably Riggs. He can wait."

"You two make quite the pair," she remarked, "like an old couple."

"Please don't remind me of that..."

The phone continued vibrating for a while. Stopped. Then started again.

"Seems important," Trish said, not quite scolding. She picked up the phone despite her husband's protests and read the caller's ID.

"It's your boss."

"You know that Riggs once called me from the captain's office just to mess with me? No idea how he did that..."

"What did he want?"

"He asked me to bring donuts."

"Did you?"

"Nah. Have you ever seen Riggs eat? That man is disgusting." 

"You should have, he looks famished half the time."

"Are you going soft on him now? I thought he was a problem dog."

"A malnourished problem dog," Trish corrected.

When their home line started ringing, Murtaugh knew he really had to leave his bed and his wife, because it meant someone was dead or worse.

 

Turned out it was both. His pissed off captain sent him on a murder case – without a partner because Riggs apparently didn't bother to come to the station or check his phone. A nuclear scientist working for a private company had been abducted the day before and found dead in the morning. He had been beaten and left for dead. There were angry tie marks on his wrists, and burns on his hands. 

Why officials weren't freaking out was beyond Murtaugh. The company denied working on anything dangerous – they were experimenting with a new type of batteries – and they had been the first ones to report their scientist missing. But Murtaugh had a bad feeling about the whole thing.

The nuclear part was scary, at least in Murtaugh's book. The case was theirs for now, but everything had to be kept under wraps. He tried to reach Riggs several times that morning, but the phone kept ringing then going to voicemail. He left threatening messages, then concerned ones. He'd have to come pick him up if he didn't want to work the case alone. But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, as Riggs and low profile didn't really go well together.

Riggs had moved his illegally parked hobo trailer a while back, without telling anyone. It turned out even the captain didn't have a location for it. His partner didn't have any friends or living relatives in the area. Hell, Murtaugh thought, he was probably the only number listed as his emergency contact by now. 

Back at the office, he spent some time rummaging around Riggs' desk to get an idea of his whereabouts, but the man had no concept of organization and his handwriting was barely legible. 

So he dropped by Dr. Cahill's office, because she may know something – telling him was another matter, patient confidentiality and all that. And also because he was starting to worry. The same feeling he had when one of his kids didn't check in at the agreed time, or forgot to return his call. Worry and irritation. For a grown man. What had his life become...

He knocked, and then hesitated, feeling foolish. 

"Hi there," Cahill greeted him, gesturing to come in.

"Have you seen Riggs?" he blurted.

"Good morning to you too, detective," she laughed. 

"Sorry... New case has me on edge, and I seem to have misplaced one very annoying partner."

"I guess you've already tried calling?" 

"He doesn't pick up."

"Have you two been fighting again?" 

"You sound like my wife," Murtaugh said without thinking. 

"She worries about you and Riggs?" Cahill asked, professional interest and curiosity in her voice.

"Riggs has a knack for twisting everyone around his little finger," Murtaugh mused, and Cahill nodded. The man was insufferable and lovable at the same time, a dangerous combination.

"I think he's screening my calls," Murtaugh explained, without saying that he did the same earlier this morning. "Do you have an address where I could find him?"

"Not exactly, but I think I know where his trailer might be." 

 

Murtaugh hated sand. It was coarse, got everywhere, even inside his shoes and socks. The beach was nearly deserted, as huge storm clouds were advancing above the sea, giving the sky an angry dark color. There were a few surfers, who would be there any day, through hail and rain. 

"I think it shouldn't be much further," Cahill said. She had taken her shoes off when they got out of the car, moving gracefully despite the horribly damp sand. Murtaugh shuddered. 

"I can't believe you don't even know where your partner lives," Cahill said.

"What about you? Do you make house calls with all your patients?"

"Of course not. And Riggs would never invite me over."

Near the end of the beach, where the cliff advanced into the sea, stood an old Airstream surrounded by junk. 

"But you knew where he parked this... thing," Murtaugh gestured to the scene of desolation in front of them.

"I'm full of surprises," Cahill smiled that coy smile of hers. 

Murtaugh felt like an intruder. It was a private place, despite its public location. A place for Riggs to grieve and brood, drown his sorrow in alcohol and he didn't want to know what else. So instead of talking about that, he deflected with humor and cutting remarks.

"That certainly explains the clothes and the hair..."

Cahill said nothing. She seemed somewhat concerned by Riggs living conditions. 

"The smell too. Seaweed and sand..."

"Didn't you have a boat?" Cahill asked, instead of commenting on the fact that Murtaugh admitted to smelling his partner.

"I had one. Rarely used it, I hate the sea, and the beach," Murtaugh said. "We sold it when the baby was born."

He knocked on the flimsy trailer door, half expecting a disheveled Riggs to tell him to go away. But no one answered and the door hung open with a creak, unlocked.

"Should we check inside?" Cahill asked, uneasy.

Murtaugh called Riggs once again. They exchanged a look when a phone started ringing inside with a hollow sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 should be up in a few days. Can't leave Riggs in that trunk for too long, right?


	3. Riggs / terrorists

The inside of the trunk got hot and stuffy. Riggs wasn't claustrophobic, but he had his reservations about tight places. His arms grew tired from the prolonged position, and he could feel two ribs grating together painfully in his side. 

The car stopped, doors were slammed. He expected the trunk to open and bad guys to take him out and beat him some more. He was ready for round two, feeling like that scientist's cat trapped in a box - feral and full of teeth. 

But the footsteps actually went away, and the voices grew faint. No light filtered through the taillights anymore. They were inside. They either had forgotten about him, or they were saving him for later. The crate dug in his back, but there was no room to move.

He sighed. At least they didn't gag him, so he wasn't worried about suffocating in the near future. His head throbbed alongside his ribs, and after a while he fell asleep.

 

"Did your momma drop you on the head when you were a baby?"

"But we thought..."

"Here's your problem. You think too much."

Logan looked at his feet like a scolded child. A six-foot child with a crew cut and a big scar on his face. In his defense, his boss was scary when he was angry, which was most of the time.

"First, you drop the white coat while we might still need him. Then, you bring back a dude you found at the beach? You really want us to get caught before the device is even in place?"

Matt Hackler was a small, middle aged man, but the paramilitary working for him feared him terribly. He was a man on a mission, and no one was allowed to stop him. None of them had the full details of the operation, but Matt had attracted an eclectic band of mercenaries and supremacists. Most of them were in for the money. Some of them because they liked to blow things up and beat people.

"We'll have the control of the electric grid in a few hours," Logan offered, trying to placate the other man.

"Tell the geeks to work faster, we need to start before the storm."

Matt had two hackers working for him, in a well equipped room of the warehouse he rented under an alias. A fat, shifty guy he met in prison, and a sleek woman who never told them her name. They both wanted to destroy capitalism, a weird idea for Matt, since the main goal of the operation was chaos and a lot of money being transferred to his offshore bank account.

He sat down in the main area, scarcely furnished, and turned on the TV, signaling that the conversation was over. Logan happily scampered away to find his men and make sure everyone was ready for the next phase of the operation.

The news were boring. More politicians getting richer, more corrupt cops, more violence and injustice. Don't get Matt Hackler wrong, he wasn't a vigilante or a hero. Just a man tired of seeing the same news on the TV day after day. 

 

Riggs woke up with a start, but this time he knew exactly where he was. 'Why' was another matter, but the answer probably lay in the box beside him. It was very hot now, as if the car had been left in the sun for too long. But there were inside. It didn’t make sense. There were pinpricks of dim light shining through the lid of the trunk, where rust had eaten away the metal. He tried to see outside but the holes were too small and his vision too blurry. 

He tried to estimate how long he had been missing. Then he gave up when he realized that people might not mind his disappearance. Maybe they were all enjoying a quiet shift, for once, no guns blazing, no shit exploding. Riggs had been so hell bent on dying quickly that he never bothered to make friends here in California. Could he count Murtaugh as a friend? The man invited him to his house more than once, which ought to mean something… Maybe he was beginning to asphyxiate after all, going soft like that.

He was so deep in his thoughts, so groggy with inaction, that he didn't even hear anyone approach until the trunk opened with a creak. He blinked owlishly at a silhouette bent over him, then the round face of a man came into focus. Surprise and shock stopped them both from reacting, and the young man shut the lid with a shout.

"You left him in there?" His voice was shrill, laced with panic.

Riggs tried to elbow his way out but it was too late. His struggles only seemed to freak the young man some more.

"He's awake! He's alive!"

"Of course I'm alive, you bastards!" Riggs decided to join in. His voice must have been muffled and raspy, but he didn't care, he needed to vent. 

"Let me out!" He banged again on the inside of the lid, for good measure.

Footsteps outside. The fat guy had probably gone fetch his military friends. This time Riggs would be ready for them.

 

"I never said we killed him," Logan kept repeating to an angry Matt Hackler. 

"You should have drowned him at the beach. Would have been cleaner..."

"Can't we leave him...?" Logan tried.

"We need the device. Get them both out."

End of discussion, once again. Matt turned around, leaving Logan with a guy to kill and a frightening box he really didn't wanted to be near. He'd ask one of the brainless ex-soldiers to do it. Or Josh, the stupid one, for letting the crazy hobo get the drop on him at the beach in the first place. He went to fetch his men, purposefully avoiding the geeks' room. He could hear the fat one babbling away about zombies and how he "nearly had a heart attack". 

"Are we moving yet?" Josh greeted him in their "living quarters". Bunk beds and a room that smelled like old socks and bad aftershave. Josh was playing on his smart phone even though Matt had forbidden them to use cells. The German guy was sleeping – or pretending to – in one of the beds, and the last one was reading a magazine with scantily clad women on the cover. 

"Take your gun, we need to finish off the beach guy."

Josh blanched and looked at the rest of the band, unsure. Killing wasn't in his job description. He thought everything was supposed to be about threat and fear, not actual murder.

"Getting cold feet?" Logan joked. Josh was the youngest of the party; he kept bragging but he had nothing to show to back it up. 

"I'll do it," he ended up saying with a very small voice, under the scrutiny of their German friend from the top bunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suddenly remembered why I don't usually write WIPs = continuity is hard.


	4. Murtaugh / Riggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Riggs doesn't really need saving after all.

“Not a phone call, not even a note…”

"He'll turn up, eventually," Bailey told Murtaugh, and she probably  meant well.  
  
But then another officer added with a snicker, "Better dead than alive if you ask me."  
  
Murtaugh didn't remember clearly what happened after that, only that he saw red and may have decked a fellow cop.

The unknown, the wait, their current case… It was doing a number on his nerves, keeping him on edge. He had probably drunk way too much coffee since this morning. The precinct kept receiving phone calls about power outages and traffic lights switching on and off erratically. There was a storm warning city wide, but it wasn’t even raining yet. Murtaugh felt it was connected to their dead scientist somehow, but no one seemed to listen.

“Where did the last call come from?” he asked around, acting on impulse.

“What call?” Bailey asked without turning from her computer.

“You know, all the loonies saying that Skynet is attacking and that we need to send someone to investigate…”

“Oh, those calls.” Bailey continued typing, then gave him the address with a sigh. “Take your umbrella if you’re going out…”

“Can I ride along?” Cruz asked, appearing in front of his desk. The kid was good at sneaking on people, and Murtaugh was glad he had turned off the sound on his heart monitor.

*

Riggs had been in bad situations before. But his current predicament was crazy bad, and he wished Murtaugh was here, so that they could bitch and blame each other. He planning on jumping out of the trunk the next time his idiot captors opened it. But spending half a day confined in a hot tight space with his arms tied behind his back made that impossible. He trashed and screamed and bit. But they were three, and one of them clocked him over the head. Again.

When he came round, he was trussed up like a piece of meat, suspended from a hook in a hangar. There were interesting patterns on the concrete floor, which looked suspiciously like spattered blood, now dried up. He tried to stand up straight, taking some weight off his arms. His ribcage felt tight, he needed to do something quickly, or his breathing would soon become difficult.

There were two men at the other end of the room – could you call a hangar a room? Riggs shook his head, trying to clear his vision and his thoughts. Wearing gloves and goggles, they were working on something on a table. Even from that distance, he could see wires and tools and the whole thing looked like a bomb. They opened the wooden crate that kept him company for a while and dug out a metallic box. They opened that too, with slow, deliberate gestures. They took out a grey ball, a bit smaller than a basket ball. Like a deadly matryoshka doll, the ball opened and inside was a small surprise the size of a ping pong ball. The two men rigged the whole apparatus and started packing a big sports bag. Riggs couldn’t pretend to be a smart man, but he’d seen enough action movies to know that it looked bad.

He knew pretty well that the only reason they’d let him see that was because he was going to die anyway. He heard footsteps behind his back. He tried to spin, but the chains wouldn’t allow it. So he changed tactics, and let his head hang down, dirty curls obscuring his face. If he appeared less threatening than he was, they would make a mistake and he’d get a shot at escaping.

The men handling the bomb got out of the hangar, and Riggs knew he really needed to chase after them. He was probably in no condition to do so, but that would be a cool thing to do. He got distracted and rewarded with a punch in the kidneys. They were two, different ones, or were they? Things got a little hazy as pain skyrocketed for a moment. He spat on the floor, wishing it was on his captor’s face, and tried to catch his breath.

“It’s a surprise you’re still alive,” the smallest, scruffiest of the two said.

“And it pains me as much as you,” Riggs assured him with a crooked smile.

“It won’t be long now,” the tall one said. He had a weird accent, German maybe, a crew cut and fists Riggs really didn’t want to get acquainted with.

“What are you planning on blowing up, anyway?” Riggs asked, wheezing a little.

“None of your concern, pal,” Scruffy said. He got a gun out of the waistband of his pants and waived it under Riggs’ nose.

“Nice gun you got there,” Riggs taunted. “Are you sure you know how to use it?”

“Hey, why don’t you—”

He never got to finish his sentence, as Riggs’ head collided with his nose with a crushing sound. He fell backwards, holding his bleeding face with a wail. The gun skidded on the floor, out of his reach.

The German beast saw red and charged. That would be their second mistake. Riggs lifted himself from the ground, holding onto the chains with his bound hands. His legs snaked around the German’s throat, he twisted his whole body and his thighs locked into place, effectively crushing his windpipe. He grappled uselessly, scratching at Riggs’ jeans. His fingers started contracting, as the lack of blood to the brain started to take its toll. His body went lax, but Riggs hold on some more, his body trembling with exhaustion, adrenaline coursing in his veins. When he released his hold, the German fell to the ground next to his wounded partner, a little blue in the face.

*

“So, where are we going?” Cruz asked. He seemed really happy to get out of the station, even though the sky was turning black and thunder was rumbling more and more frequently.

“I’m not sure,” Murtaugh hesitated, his hands clenching and unclenching on the wheel. “I guess I needed to clear my head.”

“You really think Riggs’s in trouble?”

“I don’t even know why you’re asking the question.”

“And the grid malfunction is connected? They said it was the storm…”

“Something is not right. Something is going to happen,” Murtaugh said. “And if something bad happens, you can bet that Riggs will be right in the middle of it all.”

*

Riggs tried to shift his weight and get one hand free, but he was uncoordinated and kept failing. He felt like coughing and heaving, everything throbbed and he was just bone tired. He growled, sick and frustrated. The guy on the floor let go of his nose and tried to find his gun. His grip was shaking when he stood up, facing Riggs at a safe distance.

“You don’t want to kill me,” Riggs said.

“No? Why?” His voice was nasal, his throat full of blood. He spat on the floor, making a face.

“You need someone to stop your buddies.”

“May—maybe I want to blow up the city.” But the aim of the gun wavered, telling Riggs he was right.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t want to nuke L.A.” Riggs laughed at the irony of it all. Sure, he wanted to die, but not with thousands of people, certainly not like that.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“They didn’t tell you, which means you’re expandable.”

The gun was now pointing at the floor. The wannabe terrorist seemed to consider his options for a while, and then asked with a little voice, “If I untie you… You promise not to attack me?”

“I promise, buddy,” Riggs said, shaking his chains a bit.

Of course, he had lied. Bad guy ended up on the floor a second time, his nose looking like a squashed eggplant, his own gun now aimed at his face. That’s when they heard the dog, coming at them like a frenzied beast.


	5. Dog

Murtaugh was cruising aimlessly through the city streets, wasting time and police resources, when Cruz got a call on his cell phone. He answered in Spanish, whispering as if he was talking about a conspiracy. Maybe he was. Murtaugh tried to follow, but his accent was too strong, and hearing only one side of the conversation didn’t help.

Cruz hung out, smiling. “I got a lead.”

“On Riggs?”

“On your case, the nuclear scientist,” Cruz corrected.

“Oh. Right.” Murtaugh tried not to show how disappointed he was. “What do you have?”

“Word on the street is that there is a new player in town.”

“Do they have an address by any chance?”

“Koreatown. Don’t know more. A warehouse of sorts,” Cruz said. “My C.I. seemed pretty spooked,” he added with a frown.

“It’s actually not far from where the power outages started.”

*

Riggs and his former captor both froze when they heard the dog approaching. A look of pure terror crossed the terrorist’s battered face, and he scrambled to his feet. Riggs felt the weight of the gun in his hand, making sure it was loaded. Claws on concrete, then a warning bark; the dog stopped, facing them, on the other side of the hangar. A Rottweiler, black and brown, but the snout looked too long for it to be pure rare. Then again, Riggs was as much an expert in dogs as he was in nuclear bombs.

It charged, foaming at the mouth, looking dangerous and fast. Riggs considered his options; shooting the animal, making a run for it, using his captor as a human shield. None of those seemed like a good option. The German wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t getting up soon; no help from him.

The beast was closing fast. Riggs’ palms were sweaty. He couldn’t shoot a dog. The other guy seemed to sense his hesitation, because he decided to run to the door opposite. The dog was on Riggs; he was going to die, eaten by a maybe-Rottweiler in a warehouse. He braced himself; he could feel the dog’s breath on him, smelling like death and rotten things. Just before the massive jaws clamped on him, he bent over and vomited all over the floor.

He ended up on all fours, still holding the gun, but in no condition to use it. He felt terribly woozy. The dog had stopped on its tracks, close enough for Riggs to see it was a male. It cautiously sniffed the vomit on the floor, and then licked Riggs’ face. He pushed back his hair and sat down, taking in the grinning dog in front of him.

“So you’re a good boy, uh?” He patted the animal tentatively. When the dog didn’t growl or react in any way, he leaned forward and stroked the dark fur.

*

Josh knew he had to get out – of there, of town, maybe even change states – the minute the crazy guy in the trunk started talking about a nuclear bomb. He knew what Matt was preparing was bad, but it never really clicked. Maybe his mama really dropped him on the head, as his boss had suggested. He wasn’t entirely convinced that it wasn’t just bluff – but then, why go to all the trouble of building an actual bomb?

The rest of their eclectic band had gone already, but Hans and he were supposed to drive there in case they needed backup, after they were done killing their mystery guy. Talk about mission accomplished. Josh just hoped the dog had killed him, or maimed him badly enough for the radiation poisoning to finish him off quickly, before any cop could find this place.

He sighed in relief when he pushed the last door open and saw that the SUV was still there, waiting for them outside the warehouse. It had fake government plates, and it could supposedly get them past any road block. He fumbled through his pockets, frantically searching for the keys. Hans. Hans was supposed to drive, and he was currently unconscious on the floor of the hangar with a rabid guard dog and a dead man walking.

The door opened with a bang in his back, and he jumped, striking a karate pose that was anything but threatening. The dog was the first thing he saw, which didn’t make sense because dogs couldn’t open doors; and then he saw the gun, and the man holding it. Dried blood caked half his face and he smelt like puke. He patted the dog on the head, as if to tell it that it could tear Josh to shreds in a minute.

“Missing something?” he asked in a gravelly voice. He jiggled the keys for Josh to see.

“Please don’t kill me,” Josh blurted out, raising his hands. The dog growled at him.

“Don’t worry, I think your friends are already on it.”

He passed Josh, shuffling awkwardly, the dog on his heels, and tried to unlock the doors of the car. He seemed to have trouble working the button on the key, and Josh thought about jumping him and taking the gun back. But the dog was keeping a close eye on him, baring its teeth. Thunder was rolling, the sky was darkening; it made him feel uneasy. A big fat drop fell on his broken face.

“Let me help,” he said, gesturing to the keys in the disheveled guy’s hand. His wrists were raw and his fingers looked painfully stiff. He reluctantly gave him the keys and moved to the other side of the car.

“You drive. But no funny business.”

He opened the back door for the dog to get in, and then slid into the passenger seat. The arm not currently holding a gun was draped across his midriff. While Josh didn’t really think it was safe to be around him, and the dog, he wasn’t going to argue with a crazy person holding him at gunpoint. He got into the car and turned on the ignition.

*

“ _All units, please be advised; multiple cars involved in a collision North of_ …”

Dispatch kept babbling away about traffic incidents, alarms going off and false reports of fire, much to Murtaugh’s dismay. It was raining heavily now, and he really wished he hadn’t got out on a hunch. He was a police officer, a detective, since when was he following his intuition? It crossed his mind that Riggs would have known what to do. The thought itself was disturbing, because Riggs was more of a trouble magnet than a detective.

Cruz was focused on the streets outside, trying to see past the wipers working furiously. The traffic lights flickered, then stopped working entirely. The car lurched to the side and Murtaugh swore loudly at a narrowly avoided collision with a speeding SUV that cut them off.

_“All units, please respond; reports of a bomb threat at Union Station…”_

Acting on impulse once again, Murtaugh turned left and followed them.

“Are we responding?” Cruz asked, excited.

“Yeah, contact dispatch,” Murtaugh said through clenched teeth.

“Any reason we’re following that car?” The kid was observant.

“The passenger…”

Cruz leaned forward, trying to see through the rain.

“I can see a dog.”

“The passenger has a moustache I’d recognize anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 6 should be the last one.


	6. Boom?

“I really don’t think we should go where the bomb is…”

“I thought you said your Matt guy wasn’t going to use it.”

“It’s… not safe.”

Josh didn’t add anything else, but Riggs knew what he was thinking. Look at yourself, man, you look like death. He felt like it too. He had turned up the heat, but he was still shaking – adrenaline, shock, whatever.

“You have a phone?”

“Uh, I—”

Riggs raised the gun that was resting on his lap, pointing it at his former captor’s head. 

“Phone?” Riggs repeated, watching intently as Josh awkwardly checked his pockets.

“Hans has it,” he said, sniffling – probably because of his broken nose, but he may have been trying to soften Riggs. Seeing his lack of recognition, he added, “Big German guy. You snuffed him out with your legs or whatever.”

They drove without talking for a moment. The wipers screeched on the windshield, sirens were blaring outside.

“If he’s not going to detonate that thing, then what’s the point?” Riggs asked with a frown. He was having trouble concentrating, getting stuck on inane thoughts such as “what day was it?” or “where was Murtaugh when you needed him?” He’d know what to do, he was organized and reliable; if he could just loosen up a bit, he’d be the most perfect cop ever.

“How should I know?” Josh said, loud and panicky.

“Don’t lie,” Riggs said with a weary smile. “I’m a cop.” Josh threw him a pointed look before laughing. He had no badge to prove it; he had left it in the trailer with his phone and his jacket. He would trade his gun for a jacket. He was so cold, stupid radiator…

“Like, for real?” Josh broke him out of his reverie.

“Yeah, for real.”

Riggs didn’t know much about Stockholm syndrome, but he was pretty sure that Josh wasn’t supposed to admire him, or that he wasn’t supposed to pity that guy. Or was it the other way around? Who was the victim here anyway?

“Kid, how did you end up with terrorists?” Riggs asked slowly, trying to sound like a reasonable adult, and not like a banged up cop without a badge. “Tell me what you know about the plan. And I might be able to help you.”

*

Today was a bad day for Captain Avery. He sat in his office, waiting for the phone to ring and inform him that his two “favorite” detectives had blown up the city trying to stop a terrorist from… blowing up the city. He held the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache building up.

SWAT and the bomb squad were already on the scene, but for some unfathomable reason, Murtaugh and Cruz were also driving there, and, but reports were unclear, so was Riggs. On the one hand, Avery was glad he was not dead after all. On the other hand, what the hell?

There was a loud thunderclap outside, and all the lights went out.

“Oh come on!” Avery yelled at no one in particular, alone in his now dark office.

*

“They turned!” Cruz all but shouted.

“I can see that,” Murtaugh grumbled. He reversed and followed them, the heavy rain providing enough cover.

“The train station is not that way,” Cruz commented, and Murtaugh really couldn’t care less, even though he was a bit perplexed about Riggs not going to the center of the action.

“Inform dispatch. I’m not letting them out of my sight.”

Cruz fumbled with the radio for a moment, but all it did was crackle and hiss. He took his phone and called in directly. Interferences, they said, the storm acting up.

The SUV was now driving away from the train station, taking sharp turns, as if the driver was unsure of where he was going. And then they turned into an alleyway. Murtaugh passed them and parked a little further down the road.

*

“No way, man. I’m not going up there,” Josh said, raising his hands and shaking his head.

“I wasn’t asking,” Riggs said, gesturing for him to get out of the car with his gun. Then he turned to the dog in the backseat and said, “Wanna come too?”

The dog woofed.

They managed to get inside the building and to the fifth floor without being spotted, despite the amount of noise they were making – Josh was whining under his breath, the claws of the dog clattered on the metallic stairs, and Riggs was shuffling more and more unsteadily.

According to Josh, the building was condemned to be rehabilitated – something about asbestos. His boss was supposed to be on the top floor, probably taunting the FBI and fomenting World War III as they spoke. Riggs tried to think about motives – revenge, blackmail, pure madness? But he didn’t know enough about the whole case. He was acting on auto pilot now, letting training and memories of the army take over. He’d die later, he had a terrorist to stop first.

They (meaning Riggs) choked a guard in the corridor on the top floor. There were four persons in a small room; two working on computers, another guard and Josh’s boss looking out the window, his back to the door. Before Josh could protest or give out their position, Riggs put a bullet in the guard’s knee and stormed the room, his weapon trained on the leader. Baring his teeth, the dog merrily circled the man and the woman sitting in front of computers, who both had raised their hands.

“Complete the transfers!” the leader said, without turning away from the window.

His voice was cold and calculating, and Riggs really wanted to put a slug in his back as payback. Instead, he turned to the geeks and told them to move away from the desks. The guy looked utterly terrified and complied, but the girl had a mean look in her eye.

“Move, or I’ll shoot,” Riggs barked, trying to look steady when everything around him seemed wobbly.

She reluctantly obeyed, but she entered a few keys before, a sneaky smile on her face.

“Turn the bomb off,” Riggs said. Was it the right turn of phrase? It seemed to be quite funny, because the leader of the operation began laughing and finally turned around.

“It’s not a James Bond movie, you know. There is no countdown.”

“Deactivate it,” Riggs insisted, waving the gun around and feeling his grip on reality slowly slipping away.

“It’s a decoy anyway.”

“It’s not radioactive?” Josh piped in from the door, and there was hope in his voice.

More laughter from his boss, who explained, “On the contrary, it’s badly radioactive. Probably leaking all around as we speak.”

He stared at Riggs, from head to toe, and added, his tone serious this time, “You should get checked up by a doctor, by the way. You don’t look too good.”

“Don’t feel good either,” Riggs said under his breath. He took a step towards the terrorist, but felt dizzy and had to lean on a desk. He raised a hand to his face, trying to shake himself out of it.

“So it’s not going to explode?” he asked again, trying to confirm what he had some trouble grasping, that it was just an elaborate scam to keep everyone occupied while he was doing… whatever he was doing on those computers.

“Well, it was nice knowing you,” the terrorist began, as if ending a pleasant business meeting, “but I have to go. I have a plane to catch.”

“The transfers are not…” One of his computer goons said.

“I’ll take my chances,” he cut him out. “Half the money is better than no money.”

That’s when both geeks started to lose their shit about their payment; the dog was barking more and more aggressively, and Riggs had trouble staying upright.

A shot rang out, and it’s only the recoil of the gun in his hand that made him realize he was the one shooting. Luckily – or was it unlucky? – no one had been hit, but one of the windows facing the street was cracked. He must have spaced out for a moment, because he was alone with a very concerned dog, two computers and apparently no imminent bomb threat.

*

The radio was working again. Street lights were flickering on and off. Murtaugh was listening to reports about the situation under way in the station a few blocks east of their position, while Cruz was retrieving bulletproof vests from the trunk of the car. They were waiting for a police patrol – the only backup the Captain agreed to send, considering the state of chaos the city was in.

Then they heard a single gunshot, coming from the top of the building. Cruz wanted to run head first into the building, like a certain person he seemed to admire a bit too much. Murtaugh was still hesitating, but another shot made him reconsider. A patrol car approached the alleyway, sirens off, and two beat cops got out of it.

Between the four of them, they secured the building and arrested three persons who were stupid enough to come down the stairs without checking for cops first.

Murtaugh was busy cuffing a freaked out young man with a purple bruise on his face. When he refused to say anything about what happened, Murtaugh put him in the back of his car and slammed the door. The other two were debriefed by Cruz. There were still people inside, and their boss was away – they kept bitching about how he doubled crossed them, and how they knew nothing about the bomb. How convenient...

The police officers went inside the building, and Murtaugh heard shouting and barking. He ran upstairs as fast as his heart would allow – which meant not that fast after the first two floors.

*

“You really can’t stay here, sir.”

The dog was still barking furiously.

“Sir?”

But they got no answer from the person they were trying to talk to.

“We could shoot the dog…”

“You’re not talking seriously?”

“Sir, you really need to move…”

“What’s going on here?” Murtaugh said when he reached the floor they were on.

One of the beat cops went the extra mile and picked up his talkie. “We’ve got an unknown individual refusing to comply…”

Then Murtaugh took in the scene; the two policemen, a hand on their holster, facing a disheveled hobo in tattered clothes, protected by a growling Rottweiler. He was barely standing, caked in blood, clearly out of it. He took a step forward, out of the shade; he was holding the wall with one hand, and in the other…

“Gun!” one of the officers shouted, raising his weapon.

“Put the gun down!” the other one said.

“Stand down,” Murtaugh told the policemen. “This man is a police officer.”

“Are you joking, sir?”

Murtaugh let out a strangled laugh. “I wish I was”.

“Say again?”

“Do not shoot him. Let me deal with him.”

“Riggs!” Murtaugh said, trying to catch his partner’s attention. At the moment, he was growling like the dog, a mess of curls in front of his eyes. “You need to hold back the dog.” There was a flicker of recognition, and Riggs seemed to come out of it for a second.

“That’s it buddy, it’s me,” he raised his totally non threatening hands and tried to take a step forward, past the policemen. The dog growled. Riggs patted it on the flank, and the dog reluctantly sat down.

“Let’s get out of here,” Murtaugh continued, trying to sound reassuring, but he had trouble keeping his voice calm as he saw the state his partner was in. What did this idiot do to antagonize the bad guys this time?

Then Riggs let go of the wall and fell to the floor like a broken doll. The dog whined but let Murtaugh come close.

“Call an ambulance.”

*

Murtaugh didn’t really remember the ride to the hospital. He was so shaken that he left Cruz drive his car back to the station, and rode with military personnel – or was it FBI? There was a lot of radio chatter, orders being barked, about decontamination and a lot of other scary terms Murtaugh didn’t quite get.

He called Trish on the way, to let her know that he was okay. She assured him she’d kill him later for not calling sooner, but she let it slide for now so that he could stay with Riggs. They both knew that if Murtaugh didn’t come, there wouldn’t be anyone else. Maybe Avery would visit, in a few days, with flowers or a weird edible arrangement.

He just hoped that Riggs wouldn’t try to fight anyone. And that they didn’t kill the dog.

At the hospital, he was debriefed – FBI and homeland security, as it turned out – and had to repeat the same story for each agency. He didn’t know anything about the bomb. He didn’t know where the leader of the operation could be. He did know that his partner was a hero – albeit unintentionally. They had arrested several members of the operation in various states of shock, some more injured than others. Riggs’ rampages turned out to be quite useful in dismantling the whole thing, but Murtaugh wasn’t really sure he had been aware of what he was doing.

And when he was about to tell them to go to hell with their questions, they finally allowed him to talk to Riggs’ doctor. Their talk seemed like a blur to Murtaugh – doctors have a way to say simple things in complicated terms, and to make anything sound ominous. This one seemed way too young to be treating anyone, let alone his partner. Basically, Riggs was not going to die anytime soon, and that was a relief – the rest was scary as hell, ranging from two broken ribs and a bruised lung to radiation poisoning and severe dehydration, with a side of head injury and concussion. Riggs was not leaving the hospital anytime soon, and he was not going to like it.

“Can I see him?”

“Yes, but know that we had him sedated; he kept fighting the nurses.”

Murtaugh tried not to smile when he heard that.

*

He snuck quietly into the room, intending not to disturb its occupant – who was currently standing next to the bed, looking lost and confused. The blond curls were clean now, but as unruly as before.

“Riggs?” Murtaugh asked, tentatively, remembering his confusion in the corridor of that building earlier.

“Hey, Rog! I can’t find my clothes.” Riggs sounded alright, but there was an edge to his voice, as if he was still hanging by a thread.

“I think they had to incinerate them, buddy. You were radioactive.”

Murtaugh approached cautiously, as if he was afraid to spook him. “Let me help. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“I’m not staying”, Riggs said, looking at the door. He was dressed in paper thin scrubs, but Murtaugh wouldn’t put it past him to try and escape half naked and barefoot.

“You ripped your IV out,” Murtaugh stated, using the same matter of fact voice he used with his kids, when he was trying really hard not to get mad at them, for their own sake.

“Oh.”

There was blood all over the floor, and dark rivulets along the inside of his forearm. Riggs had a dizzy spell, and Murtaugh just had to guide him back to bed.

“I’ll get a doctor. You stay there.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, Martin.”

*

Much later, when half the agencies of the country had left the hospital, Murtaugh snuck back in with Riggs’ newfound friend. It was crazy, against regulations, unsanitary – in short, something Riggs would do.

“Got a surprise for you,” he whispered when he came back into his partner’s room. Riggs was still in bed, this time, hooked up to an antibiotic drip. He looked worse for wear, but his eyes seemed clearer, less confused now.

“What…” But before he could finish his sentence, the terrorists’ Rottweiler jumped on the bed and settled across his legs. Riggs smiled like never before, and stroked the dark fur with his free hand.

“Man, what the hell happened to you anyway…” Murtaugh sat down on a chair next to the bed with a sigh.

“Did they stop him?” Riggs asked, suddenly serious.

“Your friend Josh was adamant to help once he learned that you were actually a detective.”

“I can imagine…”

“LAPD intercepted Matt Hackler on a private airfield, trying to flee the country. The two hackers he had working for him were also quick to throw him under the bus. I heard the FBI froze his accounts.”

“Not paying your employees, bad move,” Riggs commented. “And the bomb?”

“No victim,” Murtaugh reassured him. “Apart from you.”

“It wasn’t supposed to blow.”

“Only to throw us off while they hacked several banks accounts. They are talking billions of dollars.”

“How did you find me?” Riggs asked with a frown. He couldn’t really remember what when down in that building, but he hazily recalled Murtaugh being there.

“I was investigating a case. Actually doing my job, unlike someone I know,” he joked, happy to see Riggs smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is such a mess… But it was fun to write!  
> I’m not really used to long fics, I think I’ll stick to one shots now.


End file.
